


A Critical Analysis of Christmas Cliches

by Yellow_Bird_On_Richland



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas Fluff, F/M, s6 au, this came to me in a bit of a fever dream tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27910492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yellow_Bird_On_Richland/pseuds/Yellow_Bird_On_Richland
Summary: Christmas vacation isn’t all it’s cracked up to be compared to when you’re a kid. And Jeff’s not liable to feel much better if he goes out and buys books or puzzles or video games for himself. Not that he even owns a video game console, since that would be lame.So he does what he always does when he’s not sure of his next move.He calls Britta.
Relationships: Britta Perry/Jeff Winger
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	A Critical Analysis of Christmas Cliches

**Author's Note:**

> Season 6 AU. Christmas-y and domestic fluff. Slightly angst-y with a happy ending.

Jeff will never admit this to anyone, but he kinda wishes the sci-fi time-travel nonsense from Mister SpaceDude or whatever Abed and Troy's favorite show is could actually be a reality. Turns out that extended time away from Greendale only provides him with ample reminders that his life is pretty devoid of meaning, so that's fun.

Unfortunately, his only means of accelerating and/or erasing time over winter break are more or less limited to MacAllan scotch, sleeping pills, or watching shitty Hallmark Christmas movies. He's promised everyone to indulge less in the first two vices, and refuses to engage in the third unless it's part of a date night. Or, rather, a "date night." He's gotten used to playing the antagonist in those films.

So he does what he always does when he's not sure of his next move.

He calls Britta.

"Sup, Winger?" she answers on the third ring.

"Hey, Perry." He works a smidge extra to keep from slurring his voice; a man can't be expected to completely resist the call of scotch in the midafternoon when he's got no work to do and it's about a week and a half before Christmas, surely.

Maybe it's the warmth of the booze, or the feeling that he should at least _try_ not to be a miserly grinch—wallowing like a wretch will undoubtedly embed more creases in his forehead, and he can't afford to invest more funding into an already-robust moisturizing regimen—but he finds himself asking, "Do you wanna maybe go ice skating or something?"

"Ice skating?" she repeats dubiously, and he can practically see her brow furrowing.

"Yeah. I dunno. It's a nice day for it." He steps out onto his apartment's balcony and an icy wind slaps him across the face. "It's sunny, at least," he amends.

"Umm...sure. I can pick you up in, like, half an hour?"

"Cool." He has to work to not automatically parrot Abed's line. "See ya then."

He watches her pull up, hustles out to her beat-up Cadillac before she can lay on the horn; Britta is nothing if not brash.

"Are you ready to move? Well, goddamn, me, too," she comments as he folds himself into the passenger seat.

"What?"

She grins at Jeff and points at her car's CD player, unabashedly nerding out to her tunes. "I wrote this song," she sings along to the intro of some underground hipster track of the week, "when I was disillusioned and angry and it was Christmas. Wooo!"

All Jeff can do is shake his head, because who the fuck else besides Britta Perry would rip the live version of a song onto a mixtape? Who even _makes_ mixtapes these days?

Truthfully, the lyrics he catches—he's not listening too closely, but it's hard to ignore the fact that Britta's actually got decent skill as a rapper—speak pretty well to his cynicism:

_My mom's dealing with loco stress,_

_The world's like cold as shit,_

_Missed the boat and the perks_

_I'm s'posed to get,_

_Mai Tais on a white beach, coconuts, bitch._

He can't help but laugh as Britta underlines her chest with a middle finger at that last line, but the moment vanishes as the verse continues:

_Bank account, overdrawn,_

_Got hand-me-downs, but honey, no Vuitton._

_And every time I try to see the bright side,_

_Shit gets dark,_

_Just like babies killing babies,_

_Girls assaulted in some park._

"Yeesh," Jeff grimaces. "That turned morbid in a hurry."

"Well, it feels pretty fitting, don't you agree?" Britta answers, gesturing out toward the windshield with one hand as she continues. "I mean, we're both approaching forty pretty quickly, I'm in a kind of broken sixth year of attending a four year community college. Both of our actual, adult-like job prospects are crap, and Greendale is basically a gravity well," she comments cuttingly. "Oh, plus we're both more or less estranged from our respective families. You now spend holidays and most days getting drunk, and I spend them getting high, except I can barely afford weed anymore." She raises an invisible glass in a mocking toast. "So merry fuckin Christmas and fleas navidad, Jeff."

She mutters under her breath, "Not to mention, there's...this," as she glances between them.

"I might be a bit older than you, but my hearing is hardly shot yet," Jeff snipes. "What do you mean, _this?"_

She shakes her head and shoots him a small, sad smile that makes him wish she'd just scream at him instead. "I mean, when you need someone to commiserate with, when you're low ,I'm always your first call. Do you get how that makes me feel? Like, oh, I'm having a terrible day, better call Britta since it doesn't matter if I drag her down."

"Fuckin a," he mumbles.

He's tried to get better with the whole "not using people" thing, but he hasn't been aware of doing that with Britta.

" _I've kinda gotten used to us being, well, an 'us' over the years,"_ he thinks. _"And now we're not as much of a duo, I guess. But I'm still going to reach out to her. Why wouldn't I? We've been through a lot together. Not together, together, even. Just as two friends, study group members, and committee members."_

He turns toward Britta and, with a voice anchored by remorse, says, "I'm sorry. And I'm sorry it took me a second to apologize just now, but I'm trying to work some things out in my head."

"Okay," she answers begrudgingly as she turns her music nearly all the way down so she can listen to him. "Care to tell me about any of those things?"

He sighs, unsure of where to start. A Winger speech won't do for this setting, not at all, so he goes for the mostly unvarnished truth.

"It's just...where else am I gonna go? Who else am I gonna go to, besides you, when we're not all at Greendale?"

"Nope," Britta murmurs quietly. "You don't get to do this to me again, Jeff."

"Do what?" he asks, his voice almost cracking with his demand, and his desperation to keep her here, even if she's only half-engaging with him, courses through his veins.

"The yo-yo-ing. The cycle of wanting, having, rejecting. It's—we're—we can't work. I—maybe I could explain it if I sucked less as a psych major."

"Well, maybe if I sucked less as a person…" Jeff mutters darkly. His earlier rounds of scotch sipping have coated his tongue with a sticky film and he's not sure what would be more awkward, asking Britta to turn her car around and drop him back at his place or going through with the ice skating. She's driving on autopilot until they're at the rink, and she only sort of returns to life when she cuts the engine.

Jeff tilts his chin up at her. "Your move. Whaddaya wanna do?"

Britta sighs. "If I'm gonna be miserable over part of winter break, I might as well be miserable with you. Guess I'm still up for this ice skating escapade if you are."

"I'd barely ventured outside my apartment before this, so, yeah, I could use the fresh air, at least," Jeff answers. "And Britta?"

"Hmm?"

He risks a tentative smile. "Here's to a lousy Christmas."

"And a crappy new year!" she declares as they start trekking over to the skate rental booth.

Their defiant, almost macabre acceptance of their circumstances—a joint, half-drunken shanty of "We're sad! We suck! We're stuck!"—ends up casting a strange, strange light on the situation, especially when "Jingle Bell Rock" comes on. And for as bitter as Jeff's turned over the past year or so, he can't be completely immune to the edge of a rom-com angle to it all. Even if the sun's too damn bright and his feet are too damn big and neither he nor Britta can skate worth a lick. They teeter along together (where's Abed to comment on the symbolism when you need him?) for a good while until some Gordon Bombay wannabe blows by Jeff's left side and Britta somehow finds a reserve of on-ice nimbleness to dodge out of the way as he topples to the ice.

Her laughter rings out purer than the snow banks piling up in the corners of the rink and fuck if he doesn't manage a chuckle, too, despite the shooting pain in both his knees. He should be pissed that she doesn't even offer to help him up, but he kinda deserves her indifference. Now clutching the side railing to avoid falling as she laughs, she calls out, "I'd try to assist you, but I'd end up on my ass, too."

"Good point," Jeff admits as the little toe-rag skates by him again. "Hey, kid!" he shouts. "Watch it next time."

He sounds too much like a _get off my lawn, you whippersnapper_ geezer for his own liking, so he adds, with less vitriol, "And don't get old, it fucking sucks."

"Language!"

He rolls his eyes skyward at the helicopter mom— _why_ did he leave the cozy confines of his apartment—but then Britta retorts, "Suck a candy cane, Betty Lou Who," and he outright cracks up and, duh-doy, _she's_ why.

**

"You're making Christmas cutout cookies? From scratch?" Jeff asks incredulously after he's answered Britta's Christmas Eve call. "I'm sorry, did Shirley's spirit return to Greendale and take over your body?"

"It's a long story," she sighs.

"I'm the absolute worst one in the group to invite over for this, as a strongly anti-dessert person with limited kitchen skills," he adds.

"Annie's the only one with any modicum of baking talent, so it's not like I've got tons of options. And she already judges me enough as it is these days, so I didn't wanna do this while she was home. So...I'm rolling the dice on you, Jeff. You can at least read directions to me in their proper order, I think. Right?"

There's a hint of snark to the question that suggests Britta's spirit hasn't totally shattered, and he figures, _"This'll be worth a few laughs, at least, no matter what happens."_

So he deadpans back, "Basic literacy and math, check and check on my end. I'll be over in twenty. Don't burn the place down before I get there. And if you do, make sure you get yourself and the cats out."

"Fuck off," she answers affectionately just before she hangs up.

It's weird. A different weird than the kind of weird that's normal for Greendale.

Because, Jeff realizes on the drive over to apartment 303, they haven't hung out alone this much since they were dating. Or not-dating.

_"Because when we get to the part where it's real, we break."_

_"No. You run. There's a difference."_

_"Why, though?"_ he asks himself, and he has just enough time to swear, "Goddammit," before his ride on the depression roller coaster kicks into high gear.

_"Because you never received proper familial love growing up and you don't know how to give it. Because you spent decades clinically numbing yourself through hookups. Because you're afraid you won't be able to properly take care of Britta, so you'd rather hurt her now than risk adding to her pain down the road."_

He grits his teeth and snaps at himself, in the cold air of his car, "Okay. Okay. I get it."

He blasts whatever's on the radio and hopes the shock jock's inane drivel on Gold Star 102.5 will melt his brain for a bit. Except, of course, Kane and Cory are fielding calls on Christmas disasters, and Jeff's half tempted to dial in, to say, "I'm a 40 something community college teacher going over to bake Christmas cookies with a 30 something community college student. Oh, also, we've been engaged twice for roughly 24 hours total. Happy holidays."

He steers himself out of his spiral with a touch more care than he's navigating the actual road, since the path to apartment 303 is ingrained in his muscle memory at this point. And if he doesn't interrupt this little episode, he'll inevitably take a little detour to the nearby liquor store.

His stubborn will wins out, though. Well, that and the fact that disappointing Britta by reneging on big promises is one of his least favorite things to do.

She trills, "Door's open!" when he texts that he's arrived. Jeff's shocked to find her draped in an apron, her normally messy blonde curls pulled back into a not-quite-perfectly neat ponytail. And she's got what appears, to his untrained eye, to be a full array of baking ingredients laid out on her kitchen counter: sugar, eggs, vanilla extract, flour, butter, salt. Even more surprising is the robin's egg Kitchen Aid mixer that's plugged in.

"It's a little old. From my parents." Britta's smile narrows into a thin line. "During one of their phases of trying to encourage my femininity. As if men aren't capable of baking, either."

"I know I made that joke about Shirley earlier, but would you wanna call her? She could probably out-bake both of us with her eyes closed."

"I texted her earlier and she said she's available so…" Britta punches in her number to FaceTime her.

"Brit-ta! How goes the cookie making?" Shirley asks.

"It hasn't really gone anywhere yet," she admits as Jeff chimes in, "Hey, Shirley, how's it going?" and Britta adds, "How's your dad?"

"Jeffrey! Good to see you, too, and my dad's doing well, thanks. You helping Britta with baking, Jeff?" He can hear the slight frown and a bit of trepidation.

"Attempting to help," he clarifies. "Here for recipe reading and potentially moral support."

"Aah. That makes a bit more sense. I didn't think you were one to spend a lot of time in the kitchen."

"Neither of us is," Britta answers for him, "but I figured I could try to contribute _something_ for my family's Christmas party for once. But if they don't like these cookies, then," she shrugs, "that's just more dessert to share with my real family." She glances up at Jeff and shoots him a small smile. "With you, too. I know you're not a big sweets guy," she cuts him off as he's about to protest, "but if you help with baking, you get to taste the spoils."

"Hear, hear!" Shirley answers in approval, and he tries to ignore the warmth in his chest at how Britta just singled him out.

Having Shirley there to provide tips proves invaluable, Jeff quickly discovers. Neither he nor Britta have any idea what the fuck terms like "clear the bowl" or "fold in the flour" mean, and while the recipe Britta selected _said_ it was for beginners, it seemed to assume a baseline competence that's non-existent between the two of them.

"Brit-ta! What do you mean, you don't have a rolling pin?" Shirley sounds like they've offended the Lord with this baking transgression, as their dough, as it stands (or rests) is on the thick side.

"I mean...I don't have an official one, but, um…" she pulls a bottle of Bell's Winter White Ale out of her fridge and motions toward Jeff with it. "A beer bottle is about the size of a rolling pin, right?"

He shrugs. "Seems close enough."

"Kill this with me and then we can use it?"

"Gladly," he confirms, popping the top with a bottle opener and taking a healthy swig before passing it back to her.

It's a lot like old times—God, they spent so many hours watching garbage reality TV together to let their minds shut off, both to relax from school and to not consider what exactly they were doing when they weren't fucking. But it's also something new, this slice of domesticity, and Jeff recalls their discussion last year.

" _Let's do what people do. Let's get a house we can't afford and a dog that makes us angry."_

" _And dedicate an entire cabinet to grocery bags and realize we have a favorite brand of olive oil?"_

And really, those snapshots of homemaking, of actively prioritizing each other's comfort—Britta ordering cauliflower crust on pizza when she can because he hates empty carbs, and him keeping veggie burgers in his freezer since she'd rather not eat red meat—they've always felt _right_ , felt easy, with Britta.

"Jeff?"

He almost jumps. "What's up?"

She points at the cabinet under her sink. "Could you get the parchment paper? And...are you ok?" she tacks on hesitantly. "You kinda looked lost for a second."

"Nah, I'm good." He retrieves the requested item, passes it to her, doesn't let go of it for a second as he murmurs, "I'm all here, Britts. I'm with you."

She smiles softly at the admission, and her biggest, most consistent duality—rough edges, tender heart—may just sink him once again.

To clear his head, he asks, "You're going to your family's place for Christmas, then?"

"Yeah, it's a little bit of a Stockholm Syndrome thing. And, I mean, what kid doesn't want their parents to be proud of them?" Her smile slides off her face like a mug passed too quickly down a freshly cleaned bar. "Even though I _know_ better than that. That their validation shouldn't mean shit to me."

"Parents, families—it's all complicated. And they—they should appreciate you more for being you," he agrees as they slide their mostly well-formed cookies in the oven; there are a few cracked candy canes and broken bells, but, all in all, things went smoother than anticipated. "If you need a bail-out, just text me. We could come up with a code word," he suggests.

She snorts. "I think the code would be 'get me the fuck out of here.'"

"Very subtle. No one will suspect a thing," he jokes, and her slight chuckle, along with another memory—Britta third or fourth-wheeling Thanksgiving with his dad last year and actually making it bearable—spurs him to further action. "Or I could come with you. Or…" he pauses, not wanting to present such a black-and-white, all-or-nothing proposition. "Or if you wanna come over to my place after you visit your parents, that's cool, too, Britts. We could drink and make fun of cheesy Christmas rom-coms on the Hallmark Channel together."

"Okay. Yeah," she nods as she sets a timer. "To the second idea, I mean. Not that I don't appreciate your first offer. Just. It'll be easier for me to get away faster if I don't bring company. And you're sure you're fine with me crashing your space on Christmas?"

It's his turn to snort. "It's barely even a holiday for me anymore. I'll…"

"You'll what?" she prompts him after a second.

"I'll have to get some holiday spirits before then. Maybe a wine," he lies, since saying "I'll be happy to spend some of Christmas with you" feels like an awful line from a D-list movie and they don't _do_ lame. Jeff Winger, in particular, stands as the antithesis of lame.

"Not to mention, I think you could use some holiday spirit. Ho ho ho, Kris Kringle, all that. Lemme getcha some. Close your eyes for a sec," Britta comments.

"Holiday spirit? What are we, six?" Jeff mutters, but he complies with her request, nevertheless.

He's not sure what'll come next, but then Britta swipes her pointer finger down the bridge of his nose, then on his cheek, and he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mixing bowl as he opens his eyes, sees the green and red striped tracks. "You just spread _frosting_ on me?"

"You don't really ever wear holiday colors. I figured you could use some," she protests, grinning as she reaches for the Pilsbury can again, but Jeff warns, laughing despite himself, "Oh no, you don't." He picks Britta up easily, spins her away from her new food-based painting tool, and the sound of her giddy shriek jettisons him back to the first paintball game and the fourth time they made out in his kitchen and the second time he carried her into her bedroom and—

He puts her down before he can't.

"Sorry," she whispers. "Just being stupid."

" _You and me both,"_ he thinks before he responds, "I still look better than you, anyway, even with this newly applied makeup. No harm, no foul."

Britta rolls her eyes and groans. "You're an in _sufferable_ beauty queen, Jeff Winger."

"And you, Britta Perry, are an anarchist who looks downright homely in an apron."

"Touche."

Thank God Shirley'd had to take care of something with her kids and had signed off of their call before that little exchange.

Their cookies turn out the tiniest bit burnt, and Jeff only allows himself to nibble on half of a Santa hat, but…

"That's good," he comments. "Maybe a little too dry, but the frosting should help with that."

Britta brightens at his compliment. "Thanks. And thanks for everything today."

Just once, he wishes they could actually _speak,_ that they could stop dialoguing as facsimiles of Hemingway characters and address the goddamn iceberg under the surface, but they've never operated like that. Maybe someday. "You're welcome. Happy to help."

**

Jeff's torn like so many crinkled mountains of wrapping paper cast aside by kids on Christmas morning.

If Britta _doesn't_ call to ask or tell him she's coming over, that's great, right? It means her holiday with her parents has gone well. He shouldn't want her to text him their stupidly obvious code. He shouldn't want his phone to buzz with anything but a "Merry Christmas!" message from her.

He shouldn't sound so damn eager when he answers her call around ten to four, either, but he fails at that, too. "Hey. You alright?"

"Ehh. I've been better, I've been worse. This Christmas was semi-forgettable, and had only maybe three uncomfortable 'our daughter's still a bisexual' moments. All in all, not bad." She pauses for a beat. "Is that offer of judging a shitty Hallmark holiday movie and drinking still on the table?"

" _As if I'd pull it now,"_ he thinks before answering casually, "Uh, yeah, if you're still interested."

"I am. Is it cool if I just come over now? I'm, like, a half-hour away, forty minutes, tops."

"Definitely. I've got a red wine and…" he checks the bottles in the fridge. "Glug, Glug, Rudolph Christmas Ale. Plus some cheese and fruit. I figure we can order Chinese or pizza or something if we want, too."

He totally, _totally_ hasn't studied which of Britta's favorite spots are open on Christmas in case she gets hungry for real food.

Static rushes through on his end. A fond sigh from Britta. "You're a lifesaver, Jeff. See you in a bit."

She's not at all a classic holiday vision when she arrives, and he loves that about her. That she's wearing one of her dorky Christmas sweaters—a deep red one with white reindeer running along the bottom—and slightly upscale jeans paired with, of course, the ubiquitous leather jacket; he thinks she's got at least three of them, but he's never figured it out for sure.

"Thanks," she murmurs as he pulls her into a hug. "I know I said it wasn't that bad, but it still kinda sucked."

"Well, you're here now, so, ghost of Christmas past—of the very recent past—begone," Jeff answers, half-joking and nearly cringing at the sound of his own voice because _who the fuck is this?_

Maybe it's the Christmas ale he drank earlier talking, or maybe holiday spirits do actually exist, because something in his subconscious whispers, _"This is you, dumbass. You've suddenly, finally realized just how fucking important Britta is to you. Try not to Jeff it up this time, okay?"_

" _Hey!"_ he protests at his name being turned into a verb, but, well—this other part of Jeff has a point.

He doesn't try to derail their initial plans—not at first. But one movie turns into two, and two bottles of Christmas ale turn into three. And they've stopped apologizing for brushing their hands as they reach for sundry snacks on the charcuterie board. And the tiny gap between the two of them is nearly vibrating, and Britta's tentatively snuggled against him.

He's turned into one of those fucking holiday movie saps. He should hate himself for it, but he doesn't. Because he's done running from this. From Britta. From where he knew, last year, where he wanted to go.

So he pauses the movie and shifts himself on the couch so he's looking at Britta.

"Everything okay?"

He finds his smile. Not the usual smirk he gives her, but a more genuine one. "More than okay, hopefully, in a minute. I—um...shit, Britts, I don't know how this happened again, and if you're pissed at me when I ask you this, I totally get it. But…" he takes a deep breath. Tells himself to remember they've survived two broken engagements. If this goes wrong, they'll find a way to navigate it. "Could we try dating? Actually, genuinely dating?"

"Dating?" she repeats after a second.

He nods and swallows hard. "The real thing. No sneaking around, no lying, no fake names, no bullshit. Just you and me going to dive bars. Maybe art galleries, to make fun of the pretentious snobs. Maybe movies. Maybe spending weekends together and waking up together and having the day to ourselves and…"

It's one of the least eloquent speeches he's ever given, all rambling fragments that collide to make a run-on sentence, but then Britta's kissing him and he's got her pulled close so he can kiss her back. She's nodding into their gentle intimacy with a smile and her earnest answer of "We can try dating. We can absolutely try," ranks as this year's best Christmas present by a goddamn country mile.

**Author's Note:**

> Britta’s “fleas navidad” line is a nod to the song she’s playing in her car near the beginning of the fic.


End file.
